


Some Kind of Solace

by cecilkirk



Series: fic prompts [12]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, M/M, Ryden, in which ryan's dad is dying and ryan doesn't know what to do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:59:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan is unsettled after an interview, and Brendon tries to comfort him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Solace

Throughout this entire ordeal, Ryan had never had his feelings invalidated.

It was a swift kick to the back of the knees; neatly, he crumpled. Having his phone taken away left his palms aching for its return, sore with the agony of his line of communication having been essentially torn from his fingers. The interviewer laughed it off insouciantly. It hadn’t even been bitter, most likely not even purposeful, but it had felt so immensely insidious. He had been powerless to some stranger’s string of words.

For as long as this had been going on, he had never once considered his feelings had been misplaced, or were unimportant. It was currently the only thought suspended in his mind, and it left him with a heaving, numb sadness. His shoulders felt incredibly and suddenly dense, weighing him down. The grogginess from ubiquitous, long-term sadness had bled into his bones. He wouldn’t be able to pry it out, not while it was going on. Not until it ended, in whatever way it would.

He swallows, hand gripping his phone tighter to remind him he’s got it now. It doesn’t serve as much of a solace.

“Hey, are you all right?” Brendon asks softly. Ryan looks up, suddenly realizing he’s not perched on a stool anymore but seated in a restaurant’s booth. His grip doesn’t loosen.

“Yeah, yeah.” The energy to sound convincing can’t be scraped from his reserves.

Brendon pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking at a menu. “That guy was a fucking dick. Don’t think about him, okay?”

Ryan’s eyes fall to his own menu. None of the letters sink deep enough to make sense. “Okay.”

“Pretty sure Jon flipped him off, if that makes you feel better,” Brendon offers with a laugh.

Ryan can’t pry his jaw open.

They eat; Ryan doesn’t remember what. They leave; Ryan doesn’t remember when. He’s only aware of the weight that passes from hand to hand to pocket and back. It leaves him full of anxiety and drained physically, but it’s constant. He needs constancy. He can’t handle change, not now, not even if it’s for his benefit.

Ryan stutters over a crack in the pavement, and now he’s aware he’s outside, following Brendon somewhere. The sun is being pulled under the horizon, leaving desperate streaks of intensity in the hopes its life will be remembered. It fears its insignificance. Ryan feels a resonant empathy; he pities the orange and red.

He quite literally walks into Brendon.

“Ryan, tell me what’s on your mind. You’re freaking me out, man,” he offers with a laugh to break the tension, but it fails.

“Nothing. Just worried.” His pocket vibrates; he ignores it. It has been for the last hour, the phantom sensation borne of his flooding anxiety.

Brendon puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know you are. But, please…I don’t know, man, please don’t be. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

Ryan’s jaw clenches. Feelings reminiscent of the interview creep into his veins and periphery, but he decapitates them. Brendon didn’t mean it. “I’m trying.”

Brendon’s eyes search Ryan’s, and his face burns. He can’t bring himself to talk about it, not now, not in the street. He feels like he’s teetering on cliff’s edge; he shoves it away.

“Whatever happens, you know I’m here for you. We all are.”

Ryan’s teeth catch his bottom lip; his throat tightens. “I know,” he mutters. He can’t meet Brendon’s eyes.

Brendon takes a step forward. His fingers find Ryan’s, interlocking their fingers. His palm flattens, and it’s two dimensions of relief: physical change from it having been so tightly wrapped around his phone, and emotional change—small streams of his anxiety seem to trickle into Brendon’s palm.

It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s enough for him to sigh.

Brendon bends to catch Ryan’s dipped head, lips meeting awkwardly, briefly. For just a moment, his anxiety falters, freezing in his veins. For just a moment, he doesn’t pity the hues between the clouds. For just a moment, he squeezes Brendon’s fingers.

For just a moment, he feels okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [this interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PcPrtK4dKxE&feature=youtu.be)


End file.
